


A Matter of Trust and Small Dogs

by seraf



Category: Dominion (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Christmas fic, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Puppies, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wing Grooming, alexandra the puppy, crossover fic, i guess? different universes, probably the weirdest thing i have written ever, selfcest, wing!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 14:03:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5499842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraf/pseuds/seraf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No plot, really. Supernatural Michael is in Vega, and talking with his Dominion counterpart around Christmas. Wing-grooming ensues, and there's a small unexpected guest. Little bit of angst at first, and then possibly the most tooth-rotting fluff I've ever written.</p><p>(SPN!Michael referred to as Mikha'el for clarification purposes and differention between the two Michaels.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Trust and Small Dogs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Omano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omano/gifts).



> Early-ish Christmas gift for Omano! Hope you like it <3

“Careful.”

 

It was all the other Michael said, after giving a long, drawn look to his counterpart, pulling off his shirt in one fluid motion and sitting on the edge of the bed for easier access, spreading his wings slowly for the other’s hands. Mikha’el had asked, after they had discussed a few things, trading off points about their universes. Gabriel and Lucifer and Raphael and the First War and Apocalypses, botched or not, and their own participation in them.

 

And then their wings. 

 

_ Not as yours are here, I don’t think.  _ Mikha’el had said, musing lightly as he watched Michael.  _ At least not in your corporeal form. Mine are fire and grace and some metal, too.  _

 

Michael had tipped his head.  _ As mine used to be.  _

 

Mikha’el had seemed to consider that for a long second, watching his otherself and contemplating the words next to come out of his mouth, his jaw moving slightly. 

 

_ Can I see them? Or, if you would be comfortable with it, help you groom? _

 

And that was as they sat now, Mik perched behind Michael and letting his fingers run ever-so-gently through the contours of the other’s wings, marveling at some of the differences that existed. Besides the fact that his were made of some other material, there were many. Michael’s wings were darker than his, sleeker and softer and somehow sturdier with it, not moving when Mik pushed into some of the muscle, smoothing feathers beneath the palm of his hand.

 

They stayed for a few moments like that, in a companionable silence of sort, Mik organized and graceful in his movements, some pushing feathers back into place, and some just sweeping his fingers through the softer parts of Michael’s wings with the knowledge that it had simply felt pleasant to him in the past. 

 

If the slight arching of Michael’s wings, Michael’s back, into his tracing fingers was any inclination, it felt good to his counterpart, as well, and Mik smiled into the warm space of his other’s back as Michael arched once, Mik’s fingers running through a spot that seemed particularly sensitive. On an impulse, he stilled the motion of his hands, leaning forwards to press his tiny smile to the space in between Michael’s shoulderblades, in between Michael’s wings, and felt his counterpart still in surprise. He let his lips remain there for a few beats of Michael’s heart, before pulling away, returning to the methodical tracing of the other’s feathers.

 

Michael was silent for a moment, jaw shifting some, before asking, in a voice confused; “What was that for?”

 

Mik shrugged gently, tugging a bent feather from Michael’s wing in a fluid motion, careful not to hurt the other with it. “I felt I should.” His fingers traced down Michael’s bare back, fingertips brushing gently over the warm skin, before he pulled away, shifting underneath Michael’s wing to sit by his side, Michael’s wings groomed to the extent he was able.

 

“Your wings are beautiful, by the way.” He leaned appreciatively between the crook of his other self’s shoulder and his wing, watching Michael’s face, then paused for a beat. “And very different. It’s not just narcissism on my part.”

 

Michael tilted his head slightly. “Thank you. I am sure I would be able to say the same for you. If - would I be able to return the favor?”

 

Mik hesitated slightly, his own wings folding, curtaining around his shoulders as he watched Michael, and did not reply for what felt like quite some time. Nobody had touched his wings for centuries, not in a way that communicated friendship or affection. Lucifer had torn into them, and Raphael would fix the damage afterwards, wrapping bandages around open gashes and healing sores, words and reproaches left unspoken as he curled on the edge of a cot. 

 

There hadn’t been anyone to touch his wings in a way of warmth since before the First War, and at the thought, they shifted uncomfortably, metaphysical muscle pulling and becoming taut as they folded closer to his spine. Evidently, the tautness translated to his face, as well, because Michael’s softened, eyebrows drawing together with concern, and he was aware of a heavy hand resting on his shoulder.

 

“Not if you don’t want, of course. I understand.”

 

But who could Mikha’el trust, if not himself? 

 

(Albeit a very different version of himself, but Father had given him the same name, the same grace, the same purpose. If Michael could trust him with his wings, should not Mikha’el be able to do the same?)

 

“Wait.”

 

Mikha’el’s voice was tense with that, some laden with anxiety, and the instinct to pull away from Michael was strong, trying to protect himself in a way. Still, he turned, sitting on the opposite side of the bed, turning away from his counterpart. He spread his wings ever so slightly, closing his eyes with the effort of making them physical for the other to touch.

 

He felt the slight gasp of Michael’s breath at the sight of his wings, and his shoulders tensed. Mikha’el’s wings were closer to  _ metal  _ than anything else; nearly molten and fluid where they were closest to the core of his grace, white-hot and glowing, and cooled the further they got from his body, to the point where his bayonet tipped primaries were cool to the touch. Mikha’el closed his eyes, and exhaled once, cooling his wings with a spark of grace, so that his other self would be less likely to burn his fingers with the grooming.

 

With that, though, the disarray of Mikha’el’s wings came into full view.

 

His wings were not the neat, feathery things that belonged to Michael. They hadn’t been groomed in centuries, and the feathers were in disorder, some twisted and warped out of any possibility of looking like a feather. Scar tissue, or the angelic equivalent, crisscrossed the feathers and skirted underneath bone, leaving the wings pockmarked and jagged, looking like a map of some river delta, as crossed with valleys as that might be. The tips were covered in ash, and it formed ugly square patterns where Michael’s wings had been forced to compress against the bars of the Cage.

 

He felt Michael sit behind him heavily, felt the bed shift and the mattress incline into the dip made by his otherself, and it took every bit of Mikha’el’s restraint to not wrench his wings away at the cautious brush of Michael’s fingers over them.

 

“You told me earlier that you had some differences in your universe. I did not think that they would be … this drastic.”

 

There’s another moment of silence, Mik’s shoulders clenching in a series of aborted flinches, as Michael drifted fingers painstakingly slowly over the feathers closest to his body, the shortest and softest and most delicate, but also the least scarred. 

 

“I am sorry.”

 

Mikha’el nearly turns in surprise when Michael says that, only twisting his neck, as the other’s hands are still at his back, and his expression is largely one of  _ confusion,  _ a thin smile of bemusement crossing his features.

 

“What for? You did none of it.”

 

Michael sighed, and Mikha’el felt the warm air on his shoulderblade, goosebumps prickling up at the skin around it.

 

“We could have helped each other before this. You would not be so scarred. And I am sorry I never thought - before.”

 

Mikha’el twisted around, folding his wings against his back once again, and placed his hand on Michael’s knee, squeezing gently and allowing a tiny sad smile to crease the left side of his face.

 

“Then it’s in part my fault, as well, for not stopping Gabriel’s apocalypse - or whatever this might be called. But I didn’t know. As much as you didn’t know. It is far from your fault.”

Michael still looked troubled some, but he nodded once. “Still.”

 

Neither of them were very big on reactions. And they sat there like that for another couple of minutes, comfortable in the silence, Mikha’el’s hand resting on Michael’s knee gently, and the sun streaming through the glass of the Stratosphere warming their backs and their wings. It was as close to peaceful as Mikha’el had come in some time, and, despite the many dangerous differences in this universe, he wondered whether he would be able to find some reasoning to return here more often. 

 

Suddenly, there was a scratching at the door, and both of them jumped into alert, Mikha’el’s blade falling into his hand, and Michael reaching for the two set at his hips, cautiously walking towards the entrance, with the other Mikha’el flanking him, less certain about the kinds of threats that could appear at Michael’s door.

 

Michael swung the door open, ready either to fight or reprimand one of his guards, and halted, baffled for a moment.

 

“What is it?” Mikha’el called out, coming to stand at Michael’s shoulder after he saw that his counterpart had stilled and there was no movement or figure in the doorway. He looked at Michael, looked down, and then slowly began to laugh, shaking his head.

 

In the doorway, sitting innocently at Michael’s feet and wagging it’s tail, was a small, chocolate-colored puppy with a red ribbon tied around its neck. 

 

Michael gave Mikha’el an incredulous look. “Is this yours?”

 

Mikha’el shook his head, but stooped to pick up the puppy nonetheless. “Do you think I would be able to keep a dog in Heaven? Or in the Cage, for that matter? Maybe it was meant for you.” He cooed once to the dog, which made Michael give him the strangest look he believed he had ever had the fortune of seeing on another man or angel. 

 

“Who on earth would leave me a puppy? I wasn’t sure there were any left in Vega.” He looked the puppy over curiously, scratching once behind it’s ears and listening to the pleased whimper it made with a severely unimpressed look.

 

Mikha’el drew it away from the other. “There’s a tag.” Sure enough, there was a tag, green and decorated with snowflakes, attached to the ribbon and hidden for the most part in the dog’s dark brown fur. It tried to lick at his hands while he surveyed the tag, trying to read it around the armful of squirming canine trying to lick at his face.

 

“It says - “ He read it once, his brows wrinkling in confusion. “For Michael. Merry Christmas.”

 

Michael tipped his head to the side. “That could mean either of us, though.”

Mikha’el let the tag drop, succumbing to the puppy’s attempts to lick at his face while still doing his best to appear dignified. His task was made much harder by the fact that he was still shirtless, and holding a mass of squirming dark fur. “I had forgotten it was Christmas, actually. It doesn’t really register so much here.” He looked out out of the window, inclining his head to the desert behind them.

 

“We haven’t celebrated it here in some time. Most of the humans have stopped, since the angels became something to be feared. And who would I celebrate with?” It’s mused quietly by Michael, who leans over to pet the pup gently. “So I doubt it is for me, though I’m not sure how somebody would know you were here, to give this to you.”

 

Mikha’el shrugged. “I doubt a pup could be any form of sabotage, or an effective assassination plan, unless you happen to be allergic to dogs.” The dog was worming its head underneath Mik’s chin, and he laughed quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of its skull, and beaming into the warm fur. “Besides - I must admit, I want to keep it now.”

 

“It couldn’t hurt to have a dog,” Michael admitted, watching the puppy curiously. “Most people here don’t know you don’t eat. I could always excuse whatever it consumed as food brought to the Stratosphere for you. Not,” he said, with a note of smugness not exactly clear from his voice, “as though the people here would question my decisions.” He tilted his head to the side, evaluating the animal in Mikha’el’s arms. “Perhaps it was a present for the both of us, if somebody knew you were here.”

 

“Maybe so.” Mikha’el balanced the dog in his arms once more, before setting it on Michael’s bed, where it whined, pawing at the air, as it’s stubby legs couldn’t quite reach out to claw at Michael’s hips to get either of them to pick it up again. “Either way, it does need a name.” A smile creeped across his face, which he bit back, looking down to regain the sense of seriousness he usually carried. “What if we name it after your Chosen One? Alex, yes?”

 

“That might work,” Michael said dryly, crossing his arms, “but for the fact that the pup seems to be female. Alex is distinctly  _ not. _ ” 

 

“Alexandra, then?” Mikha’el’s voice was rife with amusement, eyes twinkling as he looked at the other version of him. Michael gave him a long, drawn look, as if he couldn’t believe that Mikha’el was truly the oldest one out of his Host. 

 

“Why not. I’m sure Alex will be thrilled.” Struck by a thought, Michael sat down next to Alexandra, gently reaching out to untie and unravel the red ribbon from around the dog’s neck, Alexandra pawing at his arm while he did so. “Hold still a moment, by the way.”

 

Mikha’el raised an eyebrow, but he did as he was asked, his wings left in the half-unfurled position they were in when Michael asked that of him. “Any reason for this?”

 

“Hold still,” was all Michael replied, and walked around to Mikha’el’s back, smoothing down some of Mikha’el’s still-errant feathers with the hand not holding the strand of ribbon. He stepped back for a brief second, surveying the plot of Mik’s back, before leaning forwards, and tying the ribbon around one of Mik’s primaries, the ribbon looking jaunty and bright where it was perched on the bayonet tip. “Merry Christmas.”

 

Alexandra barked twice, as if she agreed, and Mikha’el smiled.


End file.
